


Tamales

by Lightbulbs



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Family Bonding, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 16:34:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17666141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightbulbs/pseuds/Lightbulbs
Summary: Miguel helps Abuelita Elena make tamales.





	Tamales

“I’m making tamales, mijo,” said Miguel’s abuelita, peering in through the doorway. She looked at him with a fond expression. “Save your appetite for dinner.”

“Actually,” he said, glancing up from the song he was notating on some homemade sheet music, “want some help?”

His abuelita stared in shock, but she caught herself quickly. “Por supuesto.”

In the kitchen, she had already measured out the gritty masa, pouring it into a bowl with some lard. Pork was cooling on the stovetop, and the fragrant smell of peppers and onions filled the air. Corn husks sat on the table, neatly trimmed and washed.

Miguel sat down and watched as his abuelita finished folding the masa and lard together into an elastic dough. When she pulled her hand away, no masa sticking to her palm, she smiled and nodded.

“Ready for fillings?” asked Miguel as she brought the bowl to the table.

“Sí,” she replied.

“Where’s the pork?”

“Ay,” she muttered, turning around to grab the pan she’d forgotten. She set it on the table beside the masa, then kissed Miguel on the top of his head. “You’re such a clever boy.”

They got to work. Miguel rolled out one of the husks, careful not to tear the paper-thin fibers. Reaching into the bowl of masa, he grabbed a bit of the yellow mixture and spread it thinly across the middle of the husk. He eyed it critically, making sure it wasn’t too close to the edge.

“It’s okay if it’s a little messy, mijo,” said his abuelita. She laughed a bit at his sheepish grin, setting aside a third finished tamale into a large pot lined with papery husk scraps.

He gaped. “How did you do that so fast?!”

“Practice.”

“Oh. That makes sense.” He nodded, then added some pork to his half-filled tamale. He carefully folded the wrapper and squished it all together.

“So…”

Miguel looked up. His abuelita looked serious, and for a second, he wondered if his tamale-making skills were that bad. “Yes?”

His abuelita looked away, staring at the stove. “You never told us where you were on Día de los Muertos.”

“I told you,” Miguel replied, “I-I was in the graveyard. I… fell asleep.”

“You had us worried.”

“I know.” Words bubbled up inside him, yearning to escape. Stories of bright, neon buildings reaching into an endless sky. Of skeleton musicians and skeleton artists.

Of Ernesto de la Cruz pushing him off a tower and the terrifying feeling of free fall.

No, he wouldn’t upset his familia. He would take those stories with him until his own journey to the Land of the Dead.

His abuelita hummed, folding over the wrapper on her fifth tamale. The pot was starting to get full. “Mijo,” she said, finally, “you’ve changed.”

“I have?” Miguel looked at his hands. He remembered bleach-white bones, carpals and metacarpals. He shoved them in his lap. “No, I haven’t!”

“Sí.” This time when she looked at him, her eyes were sparkling. “You have. You’ve become such a good boy, mijo.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t sure what to say. He lifted his hands from his lap and put his tamale in the pot. It was lumpy, but made with love.

“I don’t know what really happened that night. And that’s fine.” She laid her hand on his, bits of masa clinging to her fingertips. “But I hope you know that, if you want to share, I’ll be here to listen. Te quiero, mijo.”

Miguel smiled. “Te quiero, abuelita.”


End file.
